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Sweet Dreams Are Made of This— No More Tango

I get the response I’ve been looking for about something that has been troubling me. Since before Christmas, loads of lonely men, strangers, who dance or sing tango have been friend-requesting me on FaceBook, and I feel sorry for their loneliness and accept them as long as we have a couple actual friends in common. It has underlined my wondering, if I should return to tango. But then every time I wonder, I think of how miserable it made me, and reflect that, sure, tango’s emotionally-confusing greyness may be authentic, but I wanted transparency and solid quality in my relationships or no relationships at all. But still, I always have doubts.

Then this morning I dream that I’m at a hotel and I’m hungry. I wander into this room that will be used for a milonga and it’s stuffed to the brim full of tables laden with instant, processed, non-nutritious snacks, none of which look remotely appealing. But I’m so hungry, I take a sconelike thing, despite the fact that it looks like empty calories / white carbs / junk food. I take one bite and have to spit it out. It was fast, it was available, but it made my body feel awful, it felt even worse than it looked. “Take note,” I told myself.

“No tango for you,” I noted, when I woke up.